


The Adventure of the Haunted House

by addicted2hugh



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fix-It of Sorts, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Ghosts, Haunted Houses, Humour, Idiots in Love, Kissing, M/M, Mentions of Mary and Moriarty, Mentions of Rosie, No Smut, POV John Watson, POV Third Person, Pining John Watson, Post-Season/Series 04, Sharing a Bed, Sherlock Holmes and John Watson Reunion
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-21
Updated: 2018-10-21
Packaged: 2019-08-04 11:48:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,742
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16346156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/addicted2hugh/pseuds/addicted2hugh
Summary: While investigating the case of a missing woman, John and Sherlock are confronted with the ghosts of their past.





	The Adventure of the Haunted House

**Author's Note:**

  * For [FinAmour](https://archiveofourown.org/users/FinAmour/gifts).



> This is inspired by a "haunted house and scared Sherlock" prompt FinAmour posted on Twitter. I know she likes bed sharing too, so there's a bit of that in here as well.

"Remind me again _why_ we're doing this, would you?"

John talks over the howling and rumbling of the thunderstorm raging outside and makes a half-arsed attempt to keep his annoyance from showing in his tone, but gives up right away. He's furious with Sherlock, and he's cold, and hungry, and fed up with the weather and this place and the day in general.

Sherlock shrugs and flips the light switch to the left of the large oaken door. Nothing happens. Of course it doesn't. They've just broken into a huge, very old, and very remote stately home in Kent, and night is falling rapidly. A few minutes ago it began to rain, and the soft drizzle it started out as has by now turned into torrents. They walked here from the village, which means that if they don't fancy a soaked-through three-hour walk through mud and the kind of complete darkness only the countryside manages to produce, they're now stuck, and there's no electricity and no phone signal either. All they've got are two bottles of water and two mobiles with uncertain battery life. And they didn't even eat lunch today.

"We're trying to find out what became of our client's grandmother, Lady Emmeline Marlowe-Mottershead, who disappeared under suspicious circumst---" Sherlock answers, but John interrupts him.

"In 1975! Sherlock! I'm sure one more day wouldn't have made a difference. Why did I allow you to drag me along for this? I could be at home right now. Comfortable. _Warm._ "

They could _both_ be at home right now, in front of the fire, steaming cups of tea in their hands. He could have taken a hot shower after dinner and then put on his soft flannel pyjamas and a dressing gown. It would have been just another cozy, uneventful evening at Baker Street. Or they could have gotten two rooms at the pub and waited until tomorrow to go and investigate here. They could have sat together and had a pint in well-practised, peaceful silence, and everything would have been nice and normal and---

"Boring!"

Sherlock's deep, slightly mocking voice rings through the darkness, and then he shines his phone torch right into John's face.

"Stop it!"

John blinks and holds up his hands to shield himself from the blinding beam of light, and Sherlock laughs and obeys, aiming at his own face from below instead.

"Better? We could tell each other scary stories."

"Git," John mutters under his breath.

He tries to decide whether the torchlight makes Sherlock's features look beautifully eerie or eerily beautiful, but then stops thinking about that, because contemplating his confusing attraction to his alien-faced roommate is unsettling at the best of times and definitely won't be of any use right now. He's also very angry with him – and with himself, for falling for the rush of adrenaline (the rush of _Sherlock_ ) again, despite his better judgement.

At least Rosie is safe, he thinks. In a fit of what he now assumes was premonition, he left her with Mrs Hudson for the night, travel cot and nappies and bottle and all, so it doesn't matter that they won't be home before tomorrow afternoon.

"There's _nothing_ here that's of any interest to the case. This house has been abandoned for ages, Sherlock," he says, fighting for composure. "Look at the dust everywhere; look at the wallpaper coming off. Nobody has lived here for years."

"You forgot to mention the smell of damp and decay," Sherlock adds not at all helpfully. "The villagers say it's haunted."

John puts his hand into his pocket to hide the fact that it's curling into a fist.

_Breathe in. Breathe out. Calm down, John._

He's doing therapy again, and so far it has helped him to control his temper and come to terms with the fact that the unnaturally fierce rage he sometimes experiences when it comes to arguing with Sherlock Holmes has nothing at all to do with the man being a self-centred, pretentious prick. It's more about John hesitating to accept the uncomfortable truth that the life he'd been leading up to the day when he finally moved back to Baker Street had been one huge, terrible lie – and projecting the blame for all of it onto Sherlock. Because God, he _likes_ this pretentious prick. A lot. More than what anyone in their right mind would call healthy.

He occasionally wonders if he'll ever get around to telling him (read: pluck up the courage to do so), but that's something else entirely, something he's not ready for yet. Not at all.

"That bloke at the pub is laughing into his shepherd's pie right now, imagining us wandering around in a decrepit mansion and bumping into antiques, looking for a pensioner who's probably enjoying the autumn of her life lying by the pool in Spain or… or Eastbourne," he says through clenched teeth.

"Eastbourne?" Sherlock asks, and John can tell that his oblivious tone is not an act.

Normally he finds Sherlock's indifference when it comes to what other people call general knowledge and he views as useless information cluttering his hard drive endearing, charming even. But not today.

"They call it _God's Waiting Room_ for a reason," he replies coolly.

"Oh, do they?"

He appreciates that Sherlock at least _tries_ to appear mildly interested.

"I'd say it's common knowledge, but I know it doesn't work like that with you."

Sherlock hums non-committally, and John knows he's not listening anymore.

"She's not hiding anywhere, John. I've checked. Very thoroughly, I might add," Sherlock mumbles. "It's nothing of the sort."

"She could have changed her name," John ventures. "If I was called Emmeline Marlowe-Mottershead, I'd _definitely_ change my name."

He knows it's ridiculous to hope for that to gain him a chuckle, but is disappointed nonetheless when Sherlock completely ignores his remark and shakes his head vehemently instead, fixing John with that just-short-of-deranged look he gets when he's picked up a scent and is greedy for the chase to begin.

"She's not gone into hiding. There's foul play at work – I can _feel_ it."

"Okay, now I'm starting to believe in ghosts after all," John retorts disbelievingly. "One of them is currently possessing you, making you think that listening to _sentiment_ is a good idea. Who are you, and what have you done to Sherlock Holmes, oh spirit?"

Sherlock snorts loudly.

"It's intuition, not sentiment. And you're _babbling_. Maybe it's the lack of nutrition. Would you like to lie down for a bit?"

John is perfectly aware of the fact that this is supposed to rile him up, but it also gives him ideas. This place is old and empty and dusty and yes, a little creepy as well, but the furniture is still there. Which means there might be a bed somewhere, or a couch, or an upholstered chair. Something soft. Something with a blanket. He squares his shoulders and looks at his friend.

"As a matter of fact, yes. Why not? We'll stay here until dawn – we might as well get some sleep. Or at least find some way to keep warm."

Sherlock sighs softly and then opens his mouth to speak.

"J---" he starts.

Then his phone dies, plunging them into pitch-black darkness.

"Oh, _great_ ," John says.

\---

They spend ten frantic minutes searching the house for candles and matches, and lo and behold, they find some in the kitchen (there's also some ancient-looking tinned food, but they're not that desperate yet). On their quest for a place to rest their tired bodies (or _John's_ tired body, because Sherlock keeps insisting he's wide awake and ready to explore – they've got one working phone left, after all) they discover that before the house was abandoned, someone put sheets all over the living-room furniture, which means that the huge sofa is almost entirely dust-free. The sofa it is, then. There are pillows and a large duvet in the master bedroom, and after John checking that they're more or less clean (" _Really_ , John? Are you cold or not?") they carry them downstairs and build themselves a makeshift bed that reminds John of the cushion forts he used to play in with Harry when they were children.

"Why didn't we think to use the bed right away?" Sherlock asks as he lies down beside John, a little out of breath from hauling the heavy bedding down the stairs and through the entrance hall.

"Because--- If we need to make a quick escape, we're closer to the door," John says and clears his throat. "Foul play, remember?"

Sherlock exhales through his nose, and it sounds amused.

"There's no one here but us. Or are you really afraid of ghosts?"

"Shut up," John grumbles.

He's not scared per se, but he never liked darkness all that much, not even before Afghanistan. You never know what might lurk in the corners. And as for the question why they don't use the bed… well. That would be weird. John has no idea whether Sherlock ever entertains ideas of that nature, but it's enough that he himself does. Using the bed would feel wrong, somehow. Too intense. Too much for recently reunited flatmates-bordering-on-friends.

"You can sleep," Sherlock tells him, in a somewhat gentler voice that makes John feel all kinds of warm inside. "I'm not tired. I'll stay awake and keep watch. Wouldn't want to burn this place down by accident. Not before I've had a good look around."

"Sherlock," John says warningly. "We're really not doing this now. My battery has to survive until tomorrow – who knows whether we'll need to make a call or something."

Sherlock's elbow bumps into him when he settles under the thick duvet, wriggling a bit to get comfortable. A jolt of something he hasn't felt since he went on his first date with a girl and their arms touched while they shared an armrest at the cinema zig-zags through John's nerves.

"I'm not going to wander off on my own; don't worry," Sherlock's voice comes floating from out of the half-light, and John stares at the ceiling and the shadows dancing across it, willing himself to not lose his head. "Your phone's in your inside pocket – how would I get at it without waking you?"

John huffs. Sherlock's body heat is creeping across the small distance between them, warming his side.

"I'm sure you'd find a way," he mutters back.

He is exceptionally glad that Sherlock isn't looking at him right now. He's blushing so furiously that he's sure he's glowing in the dark. His whole face is burning.

He's picturing Sherlock slipping his hand inside his jacket, his long, nimble fingers making their way across his chest, his touch light, but determined. And suddenly it's no longer his stupid phone he's going for, but the buttons of his shirt, the zipper of his trousers---

_Stop!_

He chides himself for indulging in this neither new nor (usually) unwelcome fantasy while his secret object of desire (or is it the object of his secret desires?) is lying right next to him, so close that he can probably use his superhuman deduction skills to read his thoughts. _God_ , if he knew. That would be _awkward_.  

"Good night," he says, because there's nothing else he can think of to say.

Sherlock doesn't reply.

\---

John wakes up because there's something wrong.

At first he can't place it, his brain slow and sleep-heavy, experiencing difficulty to form a coherent thought.

Then he hears it. There's a half-creaking, half-shuffling sound that's coming from above, like light footsteps on old wooden floorboards, and, suddenly awake, John jumps a little.

He'd be embarrassed about that – he's been to war, after all, and there _are_ no ghosts – if it wasn't for the fact that Sherlock, who's shuffled so close to him by now that their shoulders are almost touching, is also displaying visible – or rather palpable – signs of distress. He clearly felt him shudder at the sound, and his breathing seems to quicken ever so slightly as he rolls onto his side to face John.

"We're not alone," he whispers, his irises glinting in the flickering glow of the candles.

John notices that they've burned down considerably – he must have been asleep for a while.

"You think that's Granny?" he jokes in a low voice, but it comes out a little more lamely than he'd like.

"The madwoman in the attic, John?" Sherlock replies, still whispering. "How _very_ romantic."

"Excuse me?"

Even in the dim light, he can see Sherlock roll his eyes.

"It's a very common motif in Romantic literature, John. Haven't you read Jane Eyre?"

John rolls onto his side as well and props himself up on his elbow.

"I should have known that your version of romance includes spending the night in a cold, empty mansion… without food. You never eat. It figures."

Sherlock grins. It's such a dazzling sight that for a tiny moment, John forgets that he's scared.

"We do have candles, though," Sherlock points out, and John wonders how he manages to sound so smug while keeping his voice down like that. "And I'd bet that if you think about it, you'll find that I _do_ eat – with _you_. All the time."

John snorts to hide the violent surge of affection this provokes in him, but even as he grapples for something to reply that doesn't involve the words _I_ and _love_ and _you_ (and maybe _idiot_ ), the ceiling above their heads creaks again.

Sherlock licks his lips, providing John with yet another distraction.

"Give me your phone. I want to take a look."

John snaps sharply back to reality.

"You're not going alone. This place is huge. We only have one torch. If something happened to you, it could take me ages to find you."

"Fine." Sherlock seems to be too excited to argue. "Up you get, then. The game is on!"

\---

"Somebody's in there," Sherlock mouths and points at the door to their right, which is slightly ajar. "I'll go in. You cover me from outside and keep them from getting away."

"You can't---" John tries to object without making a sound, but Sherlock shakes his head and puts his fingertips on John's lips to shut him up.

The touch only lasts for a second, but John's legs find that to be sufficient to wobble a bit.

"You're not the only one trained in close combat," Sherlock breathes, and then he switches off the torch and turns around to push the door open and step into what turns out to be another bedroom.

There's moonlight shining through the open window and John can make out billowing curtains – maybe a cat got in, or some bird, he thinks. Maybe it's nothing.

Sherlock hardly makes a sound as he glides into the room and out of John's sight. The creaking has stopped as well, and everything John hears is his own shallow breathing and the blood rushing through his veins. The dark hall behind him makes him feel uneasy.

"No," he then hears Sherlock say from far away, his voice hollow. " _You?_ "

\---

John's feet are glued to the floor. He knows he should go and check on Sherlock; he knows he's relying on him to be his backup. But he can't. Sherlock sounds shocked and frightened, and the latter is the reason why John in turn feels the ground fall from under his feet. Sherlock is not frightened of anything. Never. What is he seeing in there?

"I don't know how you managed to fake your death," Sherlock says, his voice still shaking, but containing a lot more venom than only a moment ago. "But you're not going to bother us again. I won't let that happen. Not this time." He's whispered the last part, and John has to strain his ears to hear him. "You're not going to take him away from me. I'll die before I let you take him away from me."

It's Moriarty, John thinks wildly. Has to be. It's Moriarty, playing with their minds again. He's back. He's lured them here, and it'll all start all over again. Fear. Constant fear. And they've got Rosie now. She's not safe; none of them is safe.

_Sherlock, falling._

The memory, as clear a vision as if it had happened yesterday, is what rips John out of his frozen stupor and makes him move at last. He doesn't have a weapon. He only has his hands. He'll use them to protect Sherlock, to protect Rosie, whatever it may cost. He'll protect them with his life.

He takes a deep breath and enters the room, which is much larger than it appeared from the outside. With a few deft steps he reaches Sherlock, and the other man spins around, holding out his hands to keep him back.

"No, John, leave---"

At the far end of the room, partly shrouded in shadows, there's a life-sized painting showing a blonde woman wearing a long, black dress. Her eyes are so blue that not even the moonlight can wash them out, and they stir up a confused memory in John, and although he can't get a clear image of what exactly it is that they remind him of, he knows it's something unpleasant. John thinks it's weird that the thing has been put up so close to the floor; he would expect a painting of this size to be displayed above a fireplace or in a large stairwell – somewhere where it can tower over people and impress them with its grandeur.

"John, you have to go!" Sherlock pleads, his voice desperate.

"Sherlock." John doesn't leave, but closes the distance between them until he can grip Sherlock's shoulders. "What's wrong? Who were you talking to? Is it M---"

"It's _Mary_ ," Sherlock pants, his eyes wide. " _John._ "

John, flabbergasted, looks around the room. There's no one there.

" _What?_ " he asks.

Sherlock turns the two of them around, taking hold of John's upper arms, and John is forcefully reminded of the countless occasions on which he did the exact same thing – all of them having occurred before the worst day, and never again afterwards.

"She's faked it," Sherlock rambles breathlessly.

He looks paler than usual in the silvery light, and there's a fine sheen of sweat glistening on his forehead. John follows his gaze, his mind spinning. It's obvious that Sherlock is really convinced that his late wife has returned from the dead, just because – and now he can see it too – the woman in the painting shows a slight resemblance to her, and he's not sure how to react. This is a bit like at the pub in Dartmoor, but Sherlock wasn't panicking as much back then.

"It's a painting, Sherlock," he says as gently as possible. "Look at it. Come on, let's go a bit closer."

Sherlock's fingers tighten their grip on him, strong and warm and oddly comforting despite the surreality of the situation.

"I saw her _move_ ," he hisses, planting his feet against the floor.

"It was a trick of the light. You haven't eaten in a while, and you're tired. Come," John says. "I'll show you."

His heart is still beating fast, the idea of Moriarty being there to destroy their lives all over again not having left his head yet. He pulls at Sherlock, finally resorting to taking his hand in his and leading him towards the painting with slow, careful steps.

The closer they get, the more he understands what made Sherlock think that this was indeed the real thing – the likeness is uncanny. If it wasn't for the old-fashioned dress, one could easily assume that this was a portrait of Mary Watson, and because it's so big and the painter did a fantastic job of making her look three-dimensional and lifelike, he can also see why someone with too little food and no sleep might think she really was alive – at first glance, at least. Sherlock's hand twitches in his, and he holds it a bit tighter.

"Look. It's just a painting that looks a bit like her," John says when they're right in front of it, and to demonstrate, he reaches out and touches it with his free hand.

His fingers come away dusty. He looks at Sherlock, who perfectly fits the description of someone who's just seen a ghost. Or something that's been haunting him, at any rate.

_I'll die before I let you take him away from me._

Something inside of John clicks into place, and he feels his pulse accelerate again.

"Oh," Sherlock whispers hoarsely and turns his head.

He's still holding on to John's hand, making no move to let go. John is so very, very okay with that.

"I'm---" they say simultaneously.

Sherlock chuckles weakly and bites his lip, looking embarrassed and nervous and beautiful, and John wipes his dusty left hand on his jeans and then puts it on the lapel of Sherlock's coat, holding on lightly.

"I thought it was Moriarty," he says before Sherlock can speak again. "I thought he was back to finish us off. I was--- _so_ scared."

He laughs then, despite himself, but it comes out as a small sob.

Sherlock's eyes, his gorgeous stormy-sky eyes, soften somehow at that, and John drowns in their gaze. He knows that the moment they separate, they'll lose this, whatever this is. He's dreamt of touching Sherlock, of holding him, but reality is very different. It's raw and a bit painful and so unpredictable, and John wants to cross the line and find out what it means tonight.

They don't talk much, usually. They've been rebuilding their friendship bit by bit over the last months, and John is well aware that they've got a long way to go – he himself in particular. One day he'll have to address what happened at the morgue, and why it happened, and he's terrified of that, and not ready, but he also knows that what he feels now is not something that suddenly appeared when he moved back in with Sherlock.

It's been there forever.

It's time he stood up to it.

"I'd have killed him with my bare hands," he adds. "I can't lose you again."

Sherlock's face swims before his eyes, and John's got a split second to realise that that's partly down to the tears forming in his eyes and partly to the fact that Sherlock is leaning in, closer, _closer_ , and then they're kissing, and he closes his lids and pulls at the Belstaff and feels the fingers of their joined hands entwine.

Sherlock's lips are soft and hot, and John has never kissed so sweetly before. He forgets his surroundings and that he's cold and starving and gets on his toes and tilts his head to lick into the taller man's mouth, and Sherlock's tongue is deliciously shy when he reciprocates, sighing into the space between their faces, breathing John's air.

When Sherlock's free hand slides up his arm and neck and into his hair, leaving a trail of gooseflesh in its wake, John is flooded with relief and arousal in equal measures. He sucks Sherlock's plump bottom lip into his mouth, between his teeth, and bites down a little, and Sherlock shivers against him and utters a stuttering groan, his voice rough and deeper than John has ever heard it sound before.

They kiss, and kiss.

John doesn't know how long it lasts, and when they finally part, gasping for air and trembling all over, he's dizzy and weak in the knees and feels the tell-tale tug of a beginning erection throbbing between his legs.

" _John_ ," Sherlock says against his lips, rubbing their noses together, and John wraps him in a half-embrace and feels that he's in the same condition.

He smiles and nips at Sherlock's perfect Cupid's bow, which was apparently made for being kissed, like the whole rest of him, really, and he's just in the process of calculating the logistics of getting Sherlock and himself into the bed at the other end of the room as quickly as possible while at the same time enjoying the other man's hardness pressing against his abdomen when Sherlock suddenly jerks and breaks their connection to stare at John in amazement.

"Why _would_ they?" he asks slowly. "It doesn't make any sense."

John finds it difficult to collect his wits – what's going on now?

"Wh---" he starts, but of course he doesn't get the chance to finish his question.

"Help me," Sherlock tells him and turns around to grab one side of the heavy, wooden frame of the painting, apparently intending to take it off the wall. "You take the other side."

John wants to be annoyed at or at least disappointed by this sudden interruption, but even as his libido waves a sad little goodbye to the idea of imminent completion, he finds himself falling for the eager way Sherlock looks at him, his cheekbones flushed, his eyes alert and twinkling with what John knows is the glee of having had an epiphany.

"One of these days, I'll manage to switch off your brain," he mutters and takes up position to Sherlock's left, taking hold of the frame as well.

Sherlock smirks.

"Challenge accepted," he says. "On three, then."

\---

Lady Emmeline Marlowe-Mottershead watches men in blue protective suits collect her bones from the niche in the wall where they've been waiting to be found for forty-three years, hidden by a portrait of her younger self. Eccentric, this placement, they said when her now deceased husband ordered it to be put up so close to the floor, and then they all turned away and didn't pay it a second thought. All except one, that is, but at the time it happened, that one wasn't even one year old.

If her grandson hadn't employed the dark-haired detective and his silver-blond companion, her skeleton would still be there behind the painting, and she would still float around this empty house, waiting for eternity to stop and finally let her rest.

Well.

Strictly speaking, she's _still_ floating around, but only because she wants to watch what Sherlock and John are going to do next, now that their job here is done. She wishes she could follow them to London, just to see how well that _challenge_ of theirs will go, but alas, she's bound to the mansion, and the insistent pull of what's waiting beyond is getting stronger and stronger with every minute that passes. She knows it won't be long, now.

She hopes that when she's there, she'll see her beloved Rosemary again, her sweet chamber maid-turned-lover, and she also hopes they'll find the locket she was wearing when she died and which that devil of a husband didn't notice when he immured her body, the one with hers and Rosemary's names and pictures in it, and draw the right conclusions.

Sherlock will; she's sure of that. He'll notice that Rosemary Brown vanished in the same week she did, and maybe, maybe they'll find her too, wherever she may be.

And even though the man responsible for it all can no longer be held accountable for his actions, there will be peace at last.

All thanks to Sherlock and his John.

She watches them standing beside the door, observing the proceedings, the outsides of their arms touching so very subtly, _intimately_ , and feels a little sorry for giving them such a scare.

\---

"This _is_ strangely romantic," John says out of the corner of his mouth and looks up at Sherlock, sending him a crooked smile. "You found her. You're brilliant."

Sherlock returns the smile without turning his head, looking every bit the handsome hero in a black-and-white crime movie, and John has trouble containing himself.

"That's the first time you've said that since… before," Sherlock replies lowly, his mellow tone belying his aloof exterior quite spectacularly.

John swallows.

"This is neither the time nor the place, Sherlock, but when we get home… and had some breakfast and maybe some sleep… I'll tell you time and time again. I'll _show_ you. I promise."

Sherlock looks at him then, his eyes on fire, and nods.

"Let's go," John says.

On their way out, Sherlock takes a last glance at the painting, now propped up against the wall, his brow furrowed.

"You know, I'm _sure_ I saw her move," he says.

John grins and puts his palm on the small of his back, steering him out of the door.

\---

Hovering behind them, invisible, Emmeline smiles.

Then she lets go.


End file.
